


briser la distance

by disorderedorder



Category: Star Wars: The Force Awakens
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I just thought French words would fit well in the title and description, Long Distance Relationship, Modern AU, Parisian Kylo, art student Kylo, grumpy best friend Hux, makeup artist Kylo, the story is in English don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:16:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8760163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorderedorder/pseuds/disorderedorder
Summary: retrouvailles:  The happiness of meeting again after a long time.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the idea of Kylo as a long-distance friend you met on the internet, and you finally getting to meet him after six-odd years. 
> 
> Credit to magpieminx for helping with this AU and also for coming up with concepts and ideas for it.

You've never been overly fond of flying. The cramped space, the stale airplane food, the long hours left sitting in one position, stuck between two people if you're unlucky enough to get a middle seat. This time, however, you're sitting comfortably in the window seat, on the far left side of the massive plane. Your carry-on suitcase is stowed above you, your purse is shoved underneath the seat, as the rules dictate. Nervously, you twist the bracelets on your wrist, adjust your scarf, anything to help settle your nerves.

You're itching to pull your phone out, check the flight time again, even though you know that it's exactly eleven hours and forty-nine minutes. Which means you have eleven hours and forty-nine minutes to figure out exactly what you're going to say when you meet Kylo.

He's been your friend since you were fifteen, when you just started high school, and he was seventeen, already most of the way through school. He had contacted you by privately messaging your blog, asking if you could look at some of his work. At first, you thought it was a bot, or a virus, but he confirmed he was a real person by sending you to his Instagram account. There, you found out he was an art student, a visual artist, which meant painting and sometimes sketching. He did sing, too, but there was more of his artwork, usually of the most famous landmarks around the city of Paris, but he also had an entire series on the zodiac signs. He had asked you if you'd be his muse for your birth month, since it was the only one he hadn't done yet.

From there, you learned that he loved makeup as well, and he described it as painting, in its own way, with a human face as a canvas. You laugh to yourself when you remember how he had asked you to check a bag and bring all your makeup and the outfits he helped you pick over FaceTime, so he could paint you and use you for poses, and for photographs as well.

With a sigh, your best friend, Hux, plops down unceremoniously in the seat beside you, muttering something about how he'd better not get sick on this flight. He was the reason you were even able to fly out to Paris, since over the years, there had been so many complications, like lack of money, or schedules, or school. But Hux had family in Paris, and he arranged for the two of you to stay with them so you could finally visit Kylo. Luckily for the both of you, Hux's French family were pretty laid-back, so if you decided to go running off to the Paris nightlife, they wouldn't mind much as long as you didn't make too much noise coming home.

It's been six very long years since you first met Kylo, and this year, on your birthday, Kylo waited till it was midnight your time on your birthday to wish you a happy birthday, telling you to have a drink and think of him. It was about nine or so in the morning his time, and you told him to enjoy his breakfast before you let him go. There's been so many times where he's stayed up late or gotten up early, just to talk to you, or to see you off before you left to go somewhere, which has never failed to impress you.

You're still deep in thought when the flight attendants do their cursory safety procedures, and even though Hux nudges you, you wave him off. He snaps your tray table back before takeoff, and soon, the plane is rolling down the runway, faster and faster, before it lifts off into the sky. You had insisted that night flying would be better, but Hux was less than pleased about having to sleep on a plane. He had complained about having to use a neck pillow, and how he wouldn't be able to have a proper shower in the morning like he always did. And the words "taking it in stride" had no effect on him.

Hux grumbles loudly, and you kick him as a warning to not wake anyone else up, since most of the plane is sleeping or dozing off already. He glares at you, but only until you dig through your bag and offer him some sleep aids. He accepts them, wraps himself in his blanket, and closes his eyes. You, however are still awake. And still thinking about Kylo.

When you had first met him, he had actually been in a hard place mentally, since he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder at a young age, leading to episodes of depression, and then episodes of mania soon after. He told you that he could create something beautiful, but be so depressed for weeks and weeks afterwards. You had convinced him to get evaluated, start taking medication, and then you were there to remind him to take it, too. You also were there to remind him to go to sleep when he was in his manic state, since you had done research and looked into the symptoms of his disorder. You knew without having to ask that he appreciated it.

During your FaceTime calls, you had bonded over your shared love of makeup and your fascination with astrology, and his photography. Kylo had explained that he was working as a freelance makeup artist to pay for school, and how he was trying to have a reputation in the local makeup business in case his art didn't take off the way he wanted it to. He'd also given you a tour of his apartment, all bright natural lighting and modern touches and his paintings hung everywhere. He had showed you his makeup collection, which had instantly made you jealous.

You thought it was charming how he often sent Snapchats of himself with paint smeared over the bridge of his nose, or over he cheek, or even in his dark hair, his eyes bright, his cheeks a bit flushed. He told you that you'd be forgiven if you thought he'd just gotten off. And always with the time stamp, always twenty-four hour time.  
He was constantly telling you about all the places he'd have to take you when you finally got to visit, to lunch and then shopping and to take photos and then ride with you on one of those awful tour buses. He promised to show you all that Paris could offer, if you let him. You always saw stunning pictures on his Instagram account of the Louvre, or the Eiffel Tower, and sometimes obscure places, like little dive bars, or antique shops.

He'd also shown you his tattoos, all five of them. The constellation Scorpius, for his birth month of November on his left wrist, a watercolor tattoo of a lotus on his right bicep, a very tiny Death Star just below his waistband, and matching minimalist triangles on his two middle fingers. He'd explained that the Death Star was the first tattoo he ever got, when he was eighteen, and his parents forbade him to get one. So he got one in a place they couldn't see. He'd also teased you a bit, telling you that he had piercings in a place you wouldn't see unless you met him, which made you turn bright red.

You don't even notice you've dozed off until you feel Hux shaking you, saying something about breakfast. You feel the tray table hit your knees, and Hux tosses a box onto it. You're still mostly asleep, but you also realize you're extremely thirsty, so you grab the little cup in the box and rip the lid off. You've already lifted it to your lips and tipped it back before Hux can stop you.  
"That's not—" he says, but he's a second too late when you realize that it's not what you thought it was originally.

"I thought it was juice," you say sleepily.

"Well, it's not. And they just took the drink cart back," Hux replies.

You drop the now-empty yogurt cup back into the box, still thirsty, and then you feel a nudge. Hux is offering you his liter bottle of water, which is still about half-full. It takes you a second to snatch it away from him and twist the lid off, before lifting it to your mouth and drinking like it's the first drink you've had in weeks.

"No, don't drink all of it—" Hux protests, but he sighs and slumps back into his seat. "I'm getting the rose wine the next time they come around because of you," he mutters a second later.

"Can you even do that this early?" you ask, rubbing your eyes.

"It's almost noon, of course I can," he says with an eye roll.

But before he can even flag down a stewardess, the pilot comes over the intercom, announcing that the plane will be landing in half an hour, and they will be beginning their descent into Charles de Gaulle airport shortly.

"So much for your rose wine," you tease him, and Hux just grunts.

The city of Paris is beautiful, and as the plane descends, you can see more and more of it come into view. You're marveling at the Tower, and the old buildings, and when you touch down, you can't get out of your seat fast enough, despite the rule about not getting out of your seat until the plane comes to a complete stop. Hux is busy packing his things back into his bag to notice you shaking with excitement.

"What is the matter with you?" he demands.

"What do you think?" you reply, and then you smile. "Do you have your camera?"

It takes Hux a minute to smile back, but he does, and taps the outside pocket of his bag. "It's right here. Do you really want me to film this?"

The plane shudders to a stop at the gate before you can answer, and you stand up so fast that you nearly hit your head. Hux snaps your name, loudly, but you ignore him.

"Come on, come on, we've got to get off the plane!" you exclaim, grabbing your bag from under your seat and push past him, but he grabs you by the straps of your bag and hauls you back.

"Kylo will still be there," Hux reassures you. "And I doubt he'd want to hear you got trampled underfoot by everyone trying get off the plane."

You wait, impatiently, as more and more people file off the plane, with Hux holding your bag straps the entire time. When he does let you go, you nearly sprint down the walkway, and then turn back for your carry-on bag. Hux tosses it to you with a slight glare, but you smile brightly and take off back down the walkway, into the hall, and to the exit gate. Hux is following you, albeit a bit slowly, and grumbling about needing coffee soon.  
Soon, you're out of the terminal and on your way to the unsecured area of the terminal, practically dragging Hux with you.

"Get your camera, Hux!" you say, pulling at his bag. "Here, I'll hold—"  
"Alright, hold on, I'm trying to—" he says, trying to get his camera out of his bag without dropping it and the rest of his things. He manages to take the lens cap and turn it on before you take off.

"Hold on, hold on, wait!" he yells after you, but you're too far ahead of him, pulling your suitcase after you.

You've just exited the secure area when you hear a warm, French-accented voice call your name. You turn around, frantically trying to find the source. Hux is panting, swiveling around with his camera, trying to keep it focused on you, when you dart away from him, towards a tall man standing near the doors, holding a huge bouquet of pink roses.

"KYLO!" you yell, letting go of your suitcase as you run towards him, right into his arms, wrapping your legs around him. He catches you, but he has to maneuver you and the flowers he brought for a moment. He's hugging you tightly, burying his face in your hair, spinning you around. He smells like sandalwood and rosewood and a hint of vanilla sweetness, like sugar. He's so warm, and his arms wrap around you entirely, holding you close. He's also very tall, taller than you originally assumed.  
You bury your face in the crook of his neck, stroking his silky dark hair as you begin to tear up. It hits you all at once that after six long years, you're finally meeting him. You don't want to let him go, and it seems like he's thinking similarly.

"It's you, it's really you," you say, over and over, and when he laughs and presses his face against your cheek, you feel the wetness of tears.

After a long few minutes, Kylo puts you down and ruffles your hair. It's then that you realize how tall and broad he is, how sweet he looks, in his thick-rimmed glasses and his worn-in denim jacket, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a pair of ripped black jeans tucked into a pair of boots. His hair is messy, his eyes bright and cheeks flushed, looking like he does when he stays up late painting.

"These are for you," he says with a smile, offering you the flowers. "I didn't know what to get you at first, but I thought pink roses looked best. And they're my favorite."

You don't really know what to say, but you take the flowers and hug him around the middle, burying your face into his chest and sighing deeply, inhaling his warm, sweet scent.

"Six years," you hear him murmur from above you, as he wraps his arms around you again. "We've waited so long, and now I don't think I can let you go."

He pulls away just enough so you can look up at him, and just smiles down at you, strokes your cheek.

"I said I would show you all that Paris had to offer, if you would let me. So will you?"

Despite hearing the words before, you still tear up again, and you nod, pulling him close again, wanting to feel him hold you.

"Of course," you say. "I've never wanted anything more."


End file.
